Not okay that you're a carpenter.
Not okay that you want to write poems together.
Not okay that you're an inventor.
Not okay that you know better than to fuck me without feeding me.
Not okay for you to see me in all my emotional brilliance, and say,
"This--this is what I love about you, Rachael."
What am I supposed do with all my endless love for you?
What am I supposed to do?
Is it okay to simply stay?
My frizzy head in the nest of your chest?
My quick-jet mind building empires with all this potential?
What will I tell the grandchildren?
The ones who are not yours?
Who will I ever find to open this many of my doors?
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